Saturday, September 5, 2009
the entire left wall of the living room is glass, pushed back by a mammoth spanish oak. open the window: manic green floods the carpet, flypapers the walls, which are still bare, save the green, the stuff of summer in decline. tell me, please, if there's a way to revert back to rage; degrade this silence into such a state of incoherency, violence is possible. true violence can only occur in broad daylight. i want to be watched. if after twilight—is only terror, the basest form, all reverberation. i seek the purity of present-tense. and fail. the formality of my silence, of “healing”—smoothing my skirt as i sit; the sun, skin light with it. mom calls: in january, the rose bowl. do you know where they keep the floats? my sister: i tried sixteen different wedding dresses; they all made me look fat. the formality, even, of despair. i sweat without producing a scent or any identifiable moisture. i wait every day for the sun to reach high noon: a drunk and stumbling yellow
Friday, September 4, 2009
in the computer lab PK walks over, leans close, almost touching but not: want to get stoned? we drive twelve miles up I-5 to his apartment nestled atop a steep incline. idling in the driveway, he says stay here. three minutes later, emerges with a small tupperware square. one hit: he’s blitzed, mutters a prophecy or two about aliens, impending doom, then sorry haven’t smoked in months. dusk pushes up against the windshield. i lean back, close my eyes, and touch his leg don’t worry. i already like you. he cracks the window; smoke swirls up, dissolves in the moonlight. when i pass the pipe, he shakes his head no then asks how old are you? i ignore the question. how old? he quite literally places a hand on my shoulder: yr only twenty-three don’t you think you oughta slow it down? his voice like wheat being cut. i light my last cigarette: slow it down from what?
when i leave i drive around the city, letting the strung-out breeze fill the car. T calls and says come watch the magnolias drop. sprawled on the hood of his car, we split a burrito the size of my head, drink kamikazes, sweat through our jeans. with our mouths full of salt and grease, we talk about john wieners. left me here/3 AM/no Sign. T rolls a cigarette, paper sticking to his fingertips, lips. awww shit. dawn. T drops me off on sidewalk outside my duplex. the sunlight all but swarms.